Christmas in New York
by jarethsdragon
Summary: In celebration of Christmas, a few vignettes of our favorite characters and how they celebrate. In the 2012 universe.
1. Rahzar

Standard disclaimer: Do not own anything. Still. I only own a few DVDs. Set in the 2012 universe.

* * *

Rhazar sat in the atrium with the huge throne and reflecting pools. All of New York City was celebrating Christmas with lights and friends and family and home cooking. The best restaurants-heck, even the not-so-good ones-would be filled to overflowing with families and friends eating and celebrating together and here he was, stuck in this room with no one.

He missed going out and eating. Really, he didn't care anymore whether it was the luxurious Brazilian grill that brought skewer after skewer of gourmet meats or the trashy little noodle joint on the corner, he missed going out whenever he wanted. He could go anywhere and everyone would recognize the great Chris Bradford. They would crowd around him, begging for his autograph and to just spend just a second in a picture. Heck, he had rarely had had to buy whatever he ate for a while.

And the girls would crowd around him. He would be surrounded by them petting him, stroking his muscles and cooing in his ear. He could have had any one of them and they would have thanked him for whatever he gave them.

He had fired his agent and his new agent had never even seen him in person. The current story was that he had been in a motorcycle accident and was in the hospital and rehab. The agent was told that he was doing a few rounds of plastic surgery and not to bug him until he "got out of the hospital". For right now, his agent was postponing "Bloody Fist Sport Part II: Second Breath" until he was "recovered".

He sat in front of the over-sized laptop, staring at his FaceSpace page. There were still 5,872 online friends. He sighed, remembering the fans, the adoring public, the girls. He tapped the keyboard idly. His agent told him that he needed to keep up with the page until he was able to go back on screen again and not to go more than eight days without an update and certainly not to pass up doing an update on the major holidays.

So he sat in front of the laptop, wondering what to say. Tapping gently, he typed out. "So I gotta tell all of my fans that I am still-"

What was he? Amazed that they were still hanging out, waiting for him to post? Disappointed because apparently there were only losers who didn't have anything better to do with their lives than to hang out on his FaceSpace page? Glad that they at least still remembered him?

"...in the hospital and doing rehab. I will be back filming Bloody Fist Sport as soon as I can."

Rahzar frowned, waiting for inspiration to strike.

And his back itched. It drove him crazy when his back itched. He couldn't ever reach it. If he still was...himself, he would have gotten Kelli, his masseuse, to rub him down with whatever she used for dry skin. She was a buxom, bleach blonde with artificial DD's and absolutely magical hands. She would come in and lay him down with a warmed towel over his hips and get to work. An hour in her hands and he could come back from doing his own stunt work. Two hours and he could come back from just about anything.

When he had been on location, he had brought Kelli with him. She flew first class so that he could be sure that she was still there. He had gotten her from Jean-Claude by sitting next to her when Jean-Claude had flown her to his latest filming location. He had paid for her to fly with him, but had only paid for a coach ticket. So he had sat next to her, sweet talking her for the entire 13 hour flight to Japan. By the time that she got off, she was convinced that Jean-Claude was not only taking advantage of her, but that his career as an actor was going nowhere.

The way that it stood right now, he'd never see her again.

He growled at that. He missed Kelli. He missed Tammi-the brunette from Chang's-who always gave him a discount and brought him his favorite drink practically before he was seated. He missed George who took care of his stunt bikes and Bambi who did his makeup for his movies.

He tapped restlessly. "I am back going back to training soon. Merry Christmas."

He flipped through his friend list and found his favorite favorite. Typing furiously, he sent the message.

"Auntie Marie, Hope that you all are doing okay. It's Christmas again and I'm sorry I haven't been able to see you. Still in the hospital and trying to keep going in rehab. It's tough since I broke my thigh bone doing a stunt. You know how it is, right? Remember how I broke my arm and my ankle during Bloody Fist Sport I? This is so much worse-so I'm in for a worse time in rehab.

"So tell Cousin Chuck I can't wait to see him do his thing when I get back to Cali. He was always my favorite cousin and it's so cool that he's finally taking martial arts. Just tell him to keep working out and to build his muscles up so that he doesn't get hurt because it really sucks getting hurt.

"And tell everyone Merry Christmas."


	2. Tigerclaw

Tiger Claw stood in the empty office, looking at the plain, ordinary black phone on the desk lit by the one tiny light. Frowning, he picked up the handset and unplugged it. With a heavy sigh, he plugged in the hugely over-sized headset and microphone that would allow him to make the phone call.

He mashed the button, cursing as his huge paws hit several numbers at once. Clicking the buttons again, he curled his huge paw into a fist. Taking a deep breath, he extended one claw and delicately pressed the buttons.

He waited, counting the scratchy rings. A machine answered and he stared at the after midnight sky with its scattered stars over a brilliant skyline. He glanced around to make sure that the heavy wooden door was closed and that there was no one else in the soundproofed office.

His voice dropped to a throaty, deep purr. "Hello,...Risa.

"I am... It's Christmas. Happy Christmas. I have..." He paused heavily, trying to gather his thoughts. "I have sent money to the bank for you all. The...taxes should be paid and getting the roof done should not be a problem.

"I was thinking of you and Aito. Tell him that I...am still working in America. I will call you when I am able to come back...home. I will take him horseback riding and we will...save enough to go to Disney World.

"I am working, finally. The boss is..." He paused here. "He is demanding, but he pays well. Aito will be able to get his braces. I have sent you and him both presents." He had shipped the pile of boxes and the red velvet stockings full of toys and candy just a few days ago. "They should have arrived this week." He grimaced slightly. "I...saw the earrings and I thought of you, Risa, and how you look when you are happy. And I wanted Aito to have the dirt bike he wanted. It is in the same...custom flame paint as mine.

"I miss him so much. I have missed so much since I had to...leave to find work. I'm sorry that I haven't been there for you and Aito. The pictures you gave me...I look at them every day. I have them with me still, so that I can..."

He looked down at his striped paws and massively muscled arms with their fluffy pelt. He had only told Risa that he had been "fired" and left to find work. She hadn't even seen him since then.

"Risa. Cara mia, I...I miss you. Please...I never meant to hurt you. I didn't mean a word of it. I was so angry and you didn't deserve anything I said. I did not mean it. I was...angry and could not think straight. You were...are the best thing in my life." He cleared his throat heavily, blinking his eyes. It was obviously too late to be up since his eyes were itching and watering. "Please, forgive me, cara mia. I did not mean it. Not a single word of it."

"I...," he started. Then he began again. "Happy Christmas, Risa."

The machine cut him off and he clicked off the headset, staring at the night sky.


	3. Rocksteady

Rocksteady clumsily put his earpiece in and stuck the microphone on his cheek. Standing at the kitchen counter, he looked at the collection of bowls and utensils. There were several bags of groceries and a couple of recipe cards with spidery script on them and copious spots in various colors from drips and drabs.

Humming softly, he turned on a hole and put a huge soup pot on it. Emptying some boxes of vegetable broth into the soup pot, he picked up a chopstick and pressed the '5' on the cellphone handset.

The headset crackled and an old voice answered.

"Babushka!" Rocksteady cheered. "Da. I am here. In America. Da. Da. Nyet. Not married yet. Da."

He chuckled and began chopping onions, garlic and cabbage. Nodding every so often, he listened and kept chopping. "Nyet-no one special. No one like my babushka in all America.

"Da. Am fixing borscht like my babushka taught me. With cabbage and red wine and special spices."

He kept nodding, adding ingredients to the pot and stirring it. The cabbage soup was starting to bubble. "Ahh...Babushka. No one like you in all America. Nyet."

He chuckled and began humming. "Watching the television? And fixing borscht. Good plans for Christmas. Sending big package to you. Some of the good chocolate like you like and little snow globe with Statue of Liberty.

"Going to get promoted soon. Big boss need me. He crazy...like Uncle Pitr. He need me. Going to be big deal in city."

He paused, licking the immense wooden spoon. "Da, Babushka. Da." He pulled out a small spice canister and a tiny 1/2 teaspoon measuring spoon. Measuring out exactly 1/2 teaspoon of the grey-green powder and sprinkling it in the soup. "Just adding secret spices now."

He sighed happily as the smell floated in the air. Taking out another tiny pinch, he mixed it with his tub of sour cream so that the flavors could blend. A white blob landed on his recipe card and, after a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, he wiped it up with his fingers and stuck them in his mouth.

Suddenly his eyes went wide and he about choked. "Nyet! Nyet! Not wiping counter with fingers! Nyet!"

He flushed and his gray skin turned almost rosy. "Nyet. Do not need bride!" He stirred the pot, eyeing it hungrily. "Da, Babushka. Like the pretty girl, but...uh...working hard and need time to court the girl."

He nodded with his eyes open wide. "She very pretty and she doesn't know Uncle Pitr? Sure that she doesn't know Uncle Pitr? Uhh...very busy. Very busy working."

He sighed and nodded, stirring idly. "Will read letter, da. Don't cry, Babushka. Will read letter. Da. Will write soon." He looked at the pot. The kitchen smelled of grandmother's special spices and cabbage and soup just like in Saint Petersburg. Grandmother always fixed her special borscht for Christmas and his birthday. "Da. Miss you too. I'm sorry. Will call more-! Da. Will call more. You write to me. And will call more. Will write soon. Da. Da. Love you, Babushka."

His eyes watered and he sniffled as the elderly woman kept talking. The kitchen almost smelled like hers in her tiny Saint Petersburg apartment when she would fix borscht and cakes for Christmas. No matter what she had to do to afford his favorite soup and a cake with thick icing, she fixed it every year, listening to her old radio. When he left to try to find work as a younger man, she would still fix him his borscht and tell him all of the gossip. She would light candles in the the church she attended, praying for him to be safe and successful in America. By this time, she must have lit a hundred or more candles and prayed for him for hours. When he moved to America-a country that seemed still adversarial and terrifying after surviving the Cold War-she finally agreed to send him a small jar of the special spice mix that she used in her borscht, along with some hand-written recipe cards. She even managed to learn a broken form of English so that he could "practice" with her over the phone because everyone said that learning English would help make you successful in America.

Sniffing, he nodded as she told him of the latest eligible woman she had met on her way to the market. She wanted him to be married, to have the joy of children and grandchildren. Preferably to a good Russian girl who was Eastern Orthodox who could cook. She lit candles and prayed for that too-every Wednesday at the evening Mass.

"Da, Babushka. Will write soon." He stared at the pot of brilliant red soup, drinking in the scent that was almost like his home. Closing his eyes and feeling the soft trail of tears on his rough grey cheeks, he gripped the spoon. "Da. Da. Will do that." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, just breathing in the scent. Clumsily, he poured some borscht into a bowl and put a dollop of the spiced sour cream on top. Sitting down on the bench, he frowned at the soup. Smiling weakly, he nodded, stirring it all together.

"Da. Love you, Babushka." He tried to smile, but it failed. The bowl wavered in his sight and his hand trembled, causing the spoon to clink against bowl.

"Love you, Babushka... Merry Christmas..."

He slowly hung up and as his cheeks felt warm and wet. Somehow, his borscht tasted just...a little salty.


	4. Karai

Karai looked at the felt stocking with the fake white fur along the top and the pile of slickly wrapped packages. They had been delivered while she was going out on a mission, sitting in the dim gloom of her room. There was never any tags-no clever "From Santa" or from anyone. They were never even labeled with her name.

In the stocking she would have two candy bars of dark chocolate, a candy cane, two small boxes with plain earrings, two tubes of her favorite red lipstick and whatever the latest electronic gadget was for the year, pre-configured however her Father wanted so that he could monitor her activities and pay the bills.

The wrapped packages would fall into one of two categories. The first category was the completely tasteful, lady-like, anonymous gifts that some professional shopper picked out from some high-end department store-silk blouses, an occasional skirt, pins for her hair or for the blouses, a purse. The second was a variety of "gifts" that weren't as much gifts as they were tools-katanas, throwing stars, sharpeners, pieces of body armor, black scarves to cover her face and leather belts with sheaths.

She never got perfume-it could be identified and she could give herself away if she wore it. She never got gift certificates. She never got games or game systems-they were "distracting". She never got decorative items-pictures or kitschy knickknacks. She never got stuffed animals or board games or card games. She never got bubble bath, scented powder or bath salts.

Her closet was filled with anonymous clothes and shoes. She had a dresser full of weapons and bits and pieces. Her bed was a full-sized generic wood veneer from a big box store with plain white sheets and a tan blanket. There was a matching bedside table with a plain steel lamp on it. Her walls were plain white. Her floors were covered with taupe carpet-whatever came with the apartment.

Everything was bare except for the lamp and the sword she kept on her dresser. Of course there were no pictures-no posed shots of father and her, no candid shots of them on vacation or at a park. There were no photos of friends, no summer vacations or Spring Break trips, no silly pictures of her preschool or any of the school pics.

When she turned fifteen, she got a single envelope containing a ring with two keys. One was a key to a motorcycle-a completely stock, plain black motorcycle and a key to an equally plain black car. She was never consulted-asked what she might have wanted. It was all plain black and ordinary that anyone in the entire world could get with ease.

It was all easily replaceable.

The only thing she couldn't replace was the torn color photo in her bedside table. It showed a happy faced Oriental woman wearing a red button-up shirt and blue jeans. There was a completely anonymous street in the background. Whatever she was doing or holding-her arms were out-was lost because of the tear. It was like she was a generic, stock mother that could be replaced too.

She had spent hours in the bathroom-the one place that had a mirror in it-and looked at the picture and her own face. She had spent hours looking for some kind of resemblance. Maybe it was in her mouth? Maybe it was in her eyebrows-or it would be if she didn't wax them religiously? Maybe the resemblance was in her ears? Then, after hours of scrubbing her makeup from her face and washing her hair and frowning or smiling or smirking in the mirror-she thought that the resemblance was all in her mind.

So, she carried all her memories with her, almost afraid to forget anything because it might be replaced like it never existed.

She put on a black hoodie and sweatpants and plain boots, slipped out of the black and white and tan into the silky midnight. The outside was alive with colored lights-brilliant blue, hectic red, glowing green and sickly yellow. Everywhere was decorated with red and green and gold and silver and color. You could look in about every window and find trees or wreaths or paint.

She didn't want to hide in the black shadows, though. She wanted to stand in the green and drink in the red and breath in the blue and drown in the yellow. She walked for hours in the snow that seemed to reflect pale imitations of the colors in mint, pink, baby blue and cream. At one of the outdoor trees-the big one at Rockefeller Center-she paced in the colors, basking in the light like a lizard and trying to absorb as much of the hectic color as she could before she was forced to starve again in black, tan and white.

She kept walking, wandering through the streets. She saw kids decorating a tree with a grandmother, taking colorful ornaments out of boxes and putting them on the tree. She saw another window where a family was setting out a menorah, lighting the candles as parents and grandparents looked on. There was a couple on the street, staring at each other blindly as they spoke of the trip they were taking.

She kept walking, looking at the overhead lights and reading all the signs. She sucked it all in, feeling like a vacuum. Whether it was Oriental new year decorations and scrolls, Jewish matzo and menorah, Christmas trees and wreaths or simply lights and tinsel, she kept drinking it all in. It staggered her, watching the families-both large and small-and the color and celebration and she felt drunk with it.

She felt her throat close, watching a slender, dark-haired woman with her back to the frosty window cuddle a tiny baby wrapped in a pink blanket. Her fists clenched in her pockets, her eyes watered painfully, and her throat closed. She staggered out of the lights and glitz and blindly sought the familiar dark in an alley.

A stinking, badly dressed form came out, smirking at her and holding a large garbage bag of cans. "Hey, lady. Got any change?"

"No," she snapped, ducking her head.

The other woman looked at her, the snow coating her black clothed form. "You look like you're down on your luck..."

Karai shook her head. "Not me..."

The other woman laughed. "Yeah...I said that too when I got turned out the first time." She looked at Karai. "If you're down on your luck, then you can go over to the mission and get a hot meal tonight." She grabbed her bag of cans. "So, you get a hot meal and they'll help you find someplace warm to sleep tonight. Then you can start over, get a job-"

"Look, lady, I've got a job," Karai hissed hoarsely.

The other lady nodded as though she hadn't heard-or wasn't paying attention. "Look, kid, I've been on the streets a while." She jostled the bag. "I'm not young and pretty anymore, and I never did finish school, so all I got is to gather cans."

Karai frowned, backing away.

The other woman fished in her pocket and pulled out a lacy paper star ornament in a pale ecru. "I found this. I want you to have it." She handed it over to Karai. "You look like you can use a lucky star more than me tonight."

Karai shook, finally feeling the cold. The little ornament shook in her palm.

The other woman watched her silently and then walked past with her bag. She walked along the street, picking up another can and putting it in her bag.

Karai took the star and stuffed it in her pocket. Following the woman, she watched as the woman went over a few blocks to a long line in a dark alley. A single door was open and the smell of grease poured out in the alley. Karai dropped into the back of the line, walking up in steps.

She finally got up to the open door. A tall, skinny Irish woman with a dirty apron smiled at her. "Hey there... We're full up, but there's always room for one more. If you hurry in, you can still get a piece of pumpkin pie."

Karai stared at her with her mouth open.

The Irish woman put a hand on her shoulder and smiled even wider. "Come on in. It's too cold to be out here." She gestured inside, where Karai could see a threadbare tree. Everything seemed threadbare-the ornaments were obviously second hand and the plates were mismatched and cracked and all of the forks and spoons were cheap plastic. There were a group of women and a few men of all shapes and colors and sizes in dirty aprons, taking huge aluminum pans of cheap food and dumping portions on to plates. A tall, skinny man in all black with a white collar walked among them, speaking in a low, hoarse voice to everyone he could and handing out cards or little notes with addresses on them. Occasionally, a volunteer would give a mother a tiny plastic package with a bottle and an envelope of formula.

Karai stepped inside with an astounded look on her face. There wasn't any pattern she could identify here. Two of the volunteers had obvious tattoos and another one had a nose ring. Three volunteers were very heavy and two were practically anorexic and the others were in between. There were all kinds of people here in all kinds of colors and shapes.

There were several lines of tables-all of them in crazy colors and mismatched with chairs crowded around them. People sat wherever they could manage to get a few inches to crowd into in. Plates were crammed on tables and everyone was eating.

Karai was handed a plate with turkey, dressing and gravy and a piece of warm cornbread along with a scoop of mixed vegetables. Someone came through and put a waxed paper cup with grape juice. She got jostled around until someone finally pulled her to sit on a plastic chair at a table.

Everyone was eating, speaking in noisy voices just to be heard. Karai picked at the meal, just watching. No one was pointing at her, watching her, or deferring to her. She was absolutely invisible, just another face.

"Excuse me, young lady," the black clothed man said. Karai turned to him and looked at him warily. "Do you think you could talk to me?"

Karai looked up at him. He seemed harmless, with only a book in his hand. "Sure," she shrugged coolly.

"Great," the man smiled. "I...ahh...haven't seen you here at the mission before-"

"It's my first time," Karai burbled.

"Well, I wanted to be sure that you knew that you could talk to me if you needed to." He smiled at her again. "I know that there isn't a lot here, but I can help you find a warm place to sleep tonight if you need it-"

Karai flushed darkly. "Really...I mean... It's not necessary. I can go-"

The man looked as embarrassed as she felt. "Well... I can't force you to go anywhere, of course. But a lovely young lady like you might be...well...pressured to go do things that you might not want to do so that you can have food and shelter.

"But my church has a women's shelter. You do not need to...," he blushed. "You do not have to sell yourself tonight. You can stay with us..."

Karai's eyes went wide as she tried to understand what he was saying.

The man just blushed again. "Here is my card." He gave her a card. "Just remember that you don't have to. Just because you might have done...things in the past, doesn't mean that you can't change your future."

He reached out and patted her shoulder. "I think that you've got a good heart. Let me know if I can help, okay?" She only nodded. "I'm thankful that you're here tonight. Maybe your luck has turned around and you can get on your feet."

Karai could only nod again and watch as he went to speak to someone else. She took the card with her, along with the lacy star as she crept back into the headquarters and to her bedroom. She looked at the star and the card and took out the half picture. All of them were practically trash and yet, they were all more than precious to her.


	5. Foot Soldier

The black clothed figure walked through the shadowed building. He slunk from shadow to shadow, trying to just blend in. He saw the immense rhino mutant in the kitchen, sighing over a bowl of bright red soup. Trying to avoid notice, he crept down the hallway. Tiger Claw glanced at him as the tiger went into an office and closed the door, but seemed to pay him no other mind.

He finally reached a stairway in the back of the building and crept down to a lower floor. All of the human ninja tended to stay down on this lower level. He looked around carefully at the very few humans that were left. Some time ago-he couldn't remember exactly when-the humans began disappear. A few left-finding other gangs and other things to do-and those that stayed were so often injured in fights or by the cruelty of the mutants.

The Master was replacing them all with robots. The robots were amazing-fighting with moves like lightning and skill like he had never seen. He had taken classes when he was small-his mother had wanted him to-but the robots were like nothing he had ever seen.

And the Master was even better than them.

He finally reached the tiny room he was looking for. It was in the very back of the building with a view of the alley and a graffiti covered wall and directly over the sewer and the dumpsters. Just opening the window invited all kinds of sour and foul smells, not to mention a running soundtrack of violence, profanity and various gang activities. The rooms back here were mainly storage and tiny cabinet rooms for those who were left. There was no carpet back here, just filthy tile. The furniture here was mainly broken chairs and stolen couches along with rows of metal cabinets.

A skinny girl with dingy brown hair and pale skin sat on a broken chair with a warped plastic basket at her feet. A dim light from a warped desk lamp with a repaired power cord shown on her lap as she sewed a rip in a pair of black pants.

The ninja crept in and she looked up at him warily. He closed the door quietly and she put her sewing back down in her lap.

"Gino?" she whispered.

With a almost silent laugh, he nodded. "Merry Christmas, Sis," he whispered.

She chuffed out a laugh herself. "Merry Christmas, Gino." Nodding at the door, she said, "Lock the door."

Gino leaned back and locked the door. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a package wrapped in comics from several days ago that didn't smell too bad. He handed it to her, practically blushing through his black mask.

She put her sewing in the basket and carefully unwrapped the gift. Pulling out the three pulp paperbacks, she smiled. "Gino-you shouldn't have!"

"Do you like them?"

"They are wonderful," she grinned. Standing stiffly, she walked to him and hugged him gently. Something sharp poked her. "Ow! What's going on, Gino?"

He stood back a little. "Sorry, Sis." He moved his top around some. "Sorry-it's the throwing knives."

She laughed hoarsely. "I can't wait to read them." She turned and dug in her basket. "I managed to get you this." She pulled out a fabric wrapped package.

"Barb, what did you do?" Gino laughed and opened the fabric. A pair of battered throwing knives rested on a battered cardboard box. Peeking in the cardboard box, he saw some cookies. "Did you really make me some spice cookies?"

Barb nodded a little. "I got into the kitchen before Rocksteady kicked everyone out."

"So he got the rest of the cookies?"

Barb flushed and pulled out a not-quite completely broken chair. "Well, I tried to hide them."

Gino nodded, pulling off his mask and taking a bite. He was pleasantly strong with olive toned skin and flashing dark eyes. "These are just like...Mom's..."

Barb looked away sadly. "I tried."

Gino reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "Hey...don't be sad. It's Christmas!" He took out a cookie and wagged it at her. "Come on. Have a cookie."

Barb sat down and picked up her sewing. "How can I be sad when it's Christmas?". Gino limped over to the chair and sat down. She watched him carefully. "So, how bad are you hurt?"

Gino giggled a little, looking more like the seventeen year old he was. "You know me too well, Sis." He sighed. "It's nothing. Just..."

"Just...?"

"Just a twisted ankle."

"And your rib?" Barb sighed and looked at her brother. She clucked her tongue. "What happened this time?"

"I was...sparring."

"Not fighting the turtles?" She looked down on at her lap. "Gino? How long are we going to do this?"

Gino looked at her with a wry look. "What are we supposed to do?" He shook his head. "I can't just go and get a job." He shook his head and looked away. "Not with my record."

"It's just a minor thing-" Barb started to protest.

"Drug possession?" Gino laughed, eating another cookie. "Evelyn set me up good and left me holding the bag-literally." He shook his head again. "As soon as anyone looks at my application and sees that I got arrested for major drug possession for a half pound of crack and the purse she generously reported as stolen with over a grand in it, I get canned." He looked at his sister sympathetically. "Look, Barb. Maybe you can get out of here..."

"What?" Barb finished repairing the rip and put the pants aside.

"Umm," Gino flushed, the red glistening against his olive skin. "Well, I thought about it and you can get out. You're young and can get into one of the women's shelters. Get a job, find a nice guy and live life for real instead of back here in these rooms." He squeezed her hand gently. "You don't have a record."

"Gino-maybe we can both get out," Barb said. "We can both get out of here."

Gino shook his head. "I know too much." He shook his head. "I'd never get out of the door before one of the mutants would get me or..." He shuddered. "Or the Master."

"Why would the Master go after you?" She grimaced. "We're no one. We don't know anything."

Gino sighed. "I'm more worried about Tiger Claw. He can track a flea walking over concrete." He shuddered. "He's supposed to be the most feared assassin in, like, Asia!" Leaning over to her, he put his head on her shoulder. "Seriously, Sis. If you want to give me anything-get the heck out of here and go find a real life to live."

"Why would I desert my favorite brother, Gino?" She shook her head a little and picked up another pair of pants with another rip in them. "I'll stay here with you."

"I'm your only brother, Geek-face," Gino laughed. "But I guess my best sister can stay here."

"I'm your only sister, Creep-a-zoid," Barb laughed, pushing on him half heartedly. "Why do you have to be so weird?"

"Because I'm so lovable?" He smiled and took out another cookie and then handed it to her. "Merry Christmas, Sis."


	6. Shredder

Out of his armor, Shredder sat in his dark apartment and folded into a lotus position on the flat cushion on the floor. He looked at the wooden stand where the Kuro Kabuto sat, along with his two signature bladed gauntlets.

He was weary, of course. You could not run an international organization, train up-and-coming ninja, keep track of the mutants and the genetic research he was funding, and then maintain his skills by keeping a 9 to 5 schedule. His discipline kept him going on less than five hours sleep a night. Tonight was Christmas, so he would sleep six hours.

It was mind-numbing at times. He was glad to have the complex papers and research results to focus on. The ninja were not at all up to his skill level-it was simplicity itself to turn them aside to crash into walls or columns or each other. He had trained almost since birth and most of these were barely black belts after studying for a mere handful of years.

Of course, at Christmas, most everyone deserted him. Despite different backgrounds and origins, it seemed like everyone wanted to go separate directions to celebrate this one day of the year. He expected it from his ninja-they were apparently undisciplined in all ways anyway. But it seemed like even his most trusted advisers and warriors were off doing other things.

He stared at the empty helmet and discarded gauntlets. He folded his fingers solemnly in the kuji kiri. When he finally had a student that seemed talented, he would teach them the ancient Hamato meditations. The Oroku style medications he had only ever taught to Karai. His private meditations he cobbled together between the two styles and his own observations.

He focused first on his surroundings-the external. Mentally, he turned his attention away from the external-gradually turning down the sounds and slights from his awareness to only a narrow circle around him. Then, he needed to turn off his awareness of the light around him. Then the sounds-the soft sound of his own breath, the sound of the heating turning on around him, the slight rattle of pipes as someone turned on water-he deafened himself to those sounds. Consciously blinded and deafened, his awareness of touch, smell, and taste suddenly became more acute.

Next he concentrated on taste. His taste was sharpened now. He could vaguely taste everything-the bitterness of the broccoli and herbal chicken from dinner, the chalky taste of the toothpaste he used, the vaguely minty flavor of the mouthwash he used, the stale and smoky taste that seemed to coat his mouth after a battle. He turned his awareness of it all down.

Smell was next. It was the easiest to turn down because the fire had burned so much of his face and even if it didn't take out his nose entirely, it was impossible to smell much from what was left. It's loss caused his taste to become sharpened.

Last was touch. He forced himself to be still-absolutely still. Every muscle, every limb, every piece of him needed to be still. The cloth of his ghi stilled against his skin. Then he waited for the heat to stop-even that slight breath of air against his skin stilled. Everything was still and suddenly even touch ceased to be.

Deliberately in isolation, he began the elemental meditation. First he eliminated fire-anger, passion, fury, love. Next was earth, and he eliminated logic, planning, analysis. Next was water-emotion was eliminated. Last was air, dreams and intuition was eliminated.

And then all that was left was the void.

It was there, in the void, that he finally felt...nothing.

He was finally feeling nothing. The nothing-the absolute absence of anything-was welcome. He no longer felt the betrayal of his brother. He no longer felt the anger against _that woman_ for refusing him. He no longer felt the lingering duty to raising Karai. He no longer was interested in the rat or the turtles or anything else. It was welcome sensation to not feel anything. There was no pain, no anguish, no anger, no pity or despair.

He couldn't move in the void. In the absence of everything, he had no strength to move, no way to dodge or attack or block. He couldn't see anything, hear anything, smell anything. Nothing could come in, nothing could leave. There was nothing to fear, nothing to avoid, nothing to move towards or away from. He hung in a mental space with no points of reference, no way forward and no way back. He could leave it all behind and there was nothing to forget and nothing to remember. Time itself wound and unwound, passing by without him.

He needed nothing, wanted nothing. He could exist here forever and he never needed to have lights or tinsel or tradition or celebration. He did not need or want warmth or belonging or even...love. He did not need companionship or team or students or mentor or family. He needed no praise or scolding or respect or embarrassment.

The nothing-ness was all through him. He was nothing and there was nothing around him and there was only the nothing. The nothing was eternal and everlasting. The nothing was before he had family, before he had love or obsession, after he had destruction, before he had anything and after he had nothing.

He would have smiled had he been able to. Only the nothing-ness of the void was worth celebrating because it was only nothing that would last. It had been before him, in front of him, and would exist after him.

As the world spun around him in flashing lights and color and breathtaking warmth and scintillating snowy cold, he sought only the void where none of it could reach him.


	7. Splinter

Disclaimer: Still don't own anything. If I did...hmmm... I don't know what I'd be doing.

Note: If you have anyone or a specific idea, leave a comment and I'll see if my muse and I can get together over a glass of something and put it together.

Splinter stood back a little from the rest of the family, watching with a full belly and a fuller heart.

It seemed like a particular blessing that everyone was here. April and her father had brought a wicker basket full of goodies-fresh fruits, some blocks of cheese, crackers, a peculiar thing called a "summer sausage" that he had not had before coming to America, mustards and jellies, and some candies. Casey-in true, teenage boy fashion-had brought over a pile of rented video games and some sodas. Michelangelo had put together a fruit pie and, with Leonardo providing the ingredients, had put together a rather nice ham dinner.

He had not, as a custom, made a particular celebration of Christmas. His father, Hamato Yuta, had been raised in the Shinto beliefs and had raised both his sons the same way. So, while he had certainly heard of Christmas-especially from the gaijin who seemed to make it the most important celebration of the year-he had not ever done much about it one way or another.

Tang Shen had been raised as a Christian and had been the first to insist that they have a Christmas tree. Master Yuta had snorted that such a thing as cutting a tree down to fill it with artificial lights was _not_ a proper celebration of anything. He had laughed, enjoying listening to them debate all manner of beliefs and customs, and had suggested one of the tiny bonsai as a proper tree. Tang Shen had looked doubtfully at the tiny trees-some were no higher than a foot-and then at him like he was crazy. Then she had found a miniature tree kit that was supposed to be made out of beads and about a thousand bead ornaments and had been entranced to make what must have been a hundred of the little things so that they were in proportion to the tree. She had given them to Master Yuta in a gaily wrapped box, along with a lovely red scroll of calligraphy characters on the appropriate day. Then, quite soon after breakfast, she had disappeared to the kitchen to turn out a delicious dinner to celebrate. Master Yuta still grumbled about the relative chaos of all the lights and decorations, but had been very happy to make short work of the roasted turkey, vegetables and then a chocolate cake.

Splinter looked at nothing in particular and was comforted by his memories. He remembered being a young boy and staring out the windows of the dojo, hoping for the snow to stick so that he could go out and play. He remembered coming in to his mother's endless pots of hot tea and the dainty mochi she made every weekend by hand. He remembered meeting friends on the street and seeing their new toys and the candy in their hands which they sometimes shared and sometimes didn't.

Splinter smirked. Of course, Master Yuta had his revenge in a way. Since Shen had insisted on Christmas, he insisted she celebrate the New Year-right down to having her sit down and fill the red envelopes for everyone. Shen had been shocked at the amount of money flowing out-she had known that the budget for the compound was not generous-and then equally perplexed and shocked at the money that came in. The fireworks had amazed her, though-seeing them in the sky and sometimes reflected in snowbanks.

Splinter stood quietly and went back to his meditations. For years he had mourned the loss of his family and every Christmas it seemed that it was a special gift that he had found such a diverse and pleasant family to replace them. He studied the black and white picture-a formal picture of Shen, Miwa and him in traditional attire-and took a deep breath.

How many years had he been quietly furious with Saki? Had it only been fifteen? It seemed, somehow, much longer. Of course he had been mad with Saki numerous times before-there must be a universal law that brothers must fight periodically. But then, the final battle and betrayal had all but broken him. He had never thought that _Saki_ was so insanely furious with _him_ when _he_ was so busy being furious at _Saki._

Of course, neither of them had expected Shen. Like the random slip-up in a mystery movie that unravels the entire scheme or the stupidly impossible piece of luck that suddenly makes everything right-or wrong, she had stepped between them as they had fought. She had done it a dozen times-trying to maintain the peace so that Yuta could die in relative tranquility-but that one time, it had been a tragic mistake. If he closed his eyes, he would still be able to picture it all-the porch, the rice paper walls and doors leading into the dojo where candles had been lit.

Why had candles been lit in the first place? Splinter frowned, trying to recall. He was fond of them as a rule-but they had wired the entire dojo some time before for electric lights and electricity in various rooms. The Hamato dojo compound was over a hundred years old, though, and it had been difficult to wire even those few rooms because of the lack of solid and stationary walls. The memory returned suddenly-there had been a violent storm earlier that day like a foretaste of the battle to come. The electricity had gone out and they had lit candles to simply see their way in the suburban darkness.

Splinter looked at the photograph again, thoughtfully. For some reason-perhaps the cheese had mellowed him or the way that April and Donatello and Casey had sung soft songs of family and cheer or the little lights that Michelangelo had strung everywhere-the thoughts of the tragedy were not the backbreaking weight they had been in the past. Shen was gone, of course, and would not return. Miwa was almost as good as gone-transformed into the kunoichi Karai.

But he had Leonardo-a stalwart soul who wanted only to be the best ninja he could. He had Raphael who was apparently content to fight through anything but who was loyal to the ends of the earth. He had Donatello whose brilliance and scientific knowledge apparently knew no boundaries. He had his youngest son-Michelangelo who was gifted with the ability to make people smile in the worst of times. Inexplicably, somehow he had April who was a sweet, almost innocent girl (for who could remain completely innocent when she faced Saki so often and saw so many battles?) with a loyal heart and a quick mind. Somewhere, they had picked up Casey, who for all of his bravado and who pretended to be one who walks by himself and all places are the same to him, who was loyal no matter what he saw and enthusiastic to make things right.

Master Yuta, his father, would have loved them all as family. He would have been a bit puzzled-as Splinter himself often was-by Donatello, but been ready to love and encourage him to learn more and discover all he could because at the heart of being a ninja was a thirst for information. He would have adored Michelangelo who seemed to bob along with a grin on his face-because Michelangelo would have loved to simply sit and listen to his stories of long ago. He would have been a patient grandfather, trying continually to lead Raphael around his temper and adored him for being honest enough-a rare thing in the world of shinobi-to simply express what he was feeling. Leonardo, of course, with his single-minded drive towards excellence and perfection, would have fulfilled his dream of a grandson and Yuta would not rest until Leondardo finally felt satisfied with himself. What would he have made of April and Casey? April would have been carefully respected as any lady was when she was with a Hamato gentleman, but he had a sneaking suspicion that she would have been the one to spoil him rotten.

Casey? Casey was almost the blend of all of Splinter's sons, not so snarky or angry as Raphael, not so endlessly buoyant as Michelangelo, not as driven as Leonardo and not so brilliant as Donatello. That almost made him more special in Splinter's eyes-he was truly the middle child that combined the best of the turtles. He was prone to acting out-had there ever been a middle child that didn't?-but for all that he was still loyal, discrete, and accepting.

Splinter stared at the photo again. It was actually supposed to be a part of a series. The first one was of both his mother and father in their finest kimono. The next was when Saki had come of age and after his mother had died and was of the three of them in almost uniform kimono with the discrete Hamato crest on each of their lapels. The next one was of he and Saki as young men with their kimono and swords. Shen had posed-reluctantly-in the traditional white kimono (she said it made her look fat) for their wedding picture and then had laughed that they were Yin and Yang with her in white and him in dark wine that appears almost black in the photo. The one with Miwa was the most recent and they had gone to great lengths to find a photographer with the right equipment to match the rest of the series.

Saki's wedding was supposed to be the one after, his wife in white and he in wine. Splinter wondered briefly if anyone had ever told Saki how much Yuta wanted to see that final photograph. He was too wise to try to force Saki by pressuring him, but Yoshi had seen more than once the red lacquered frame that he kept wrapped in a piece of black silk so that Saki's picture would be properly displayed.

Splinter paused at that thought. Did anyone tell Saki? Did his father say whatever words of praise or honor Saki had longed to hear? Had anyone paid attention to him at all after he had married and then Shen had discovered her honeymoon pregnancy? Or had everyone been suddenly too wrapped up Shen and her every move?

Splinter grunted softly, staring at the photo. It didn't matter of course-Saki had long since turned away from everything that Yuta had ever taught them of respect for all creatures, self-discipline and honor. But now, in the stillness of Christmas, he did wonder if maybe there was some sign he had missed that might have contributed to Saki's fall from grace.

Touching the frame of the picture, he smiled at his last family in a wistful, "wish you were here" way. There were other pictures now, as well. Pictures of baby turtles, pictures of his sons in various poses and making faces at the camera, pictures of groups of teenagers having fun and smiling despite the regular disasters that plagued New York. There were even a few of the unlikely friends that they had gathered-Dr. Rockwell, Pigeon Pete, Leatherhead, and so on. Somehow Donatello had even captured a picture of the back of Bishop's head.

So, he decided that Christmas-for all of it's commercial glitz-was a good time to be merry for the things that were right in the world. Family. Friends. Good times. Honor. Hope.

Hope.

There was that little word again. The one that he hung on to every time they faced Karai. The one that he clung to like a security blanket when he sons left without him.

Christmas wasn't the same without a little hope, he decided. The world was filled with many strange and unusual things. Maybe, hope wasn't the strange egg in the nest, but another blessing. Splinter smiled. Maybe that was what made Christmas so popular-beyond the gifts and the friends and family, there was just hope in the face of certain disasters and problems and old-fashioned bad luck.

So, just this once, he cleared a little space at the end of his shelf where he hoped to have a picture of his brother.


End file.
